A Good Christian Home
by SyncreticVenture
Summary: Inspired by "Hogwarts School of Prayer and Miracles" and my experiences with the flock. I look at Harry's how upbringing and school life might have been different if the Dursleys had been true loving Christians. T for some 'questionable' content and language. And also for the copious amounts of sarcasm. Somehow became part hurt/comfort despite my best efforts.
1. The First Decade

A GOOD CHRISTIAN HOME

_Inspired by "Hogwarts School of Prayer and Miracles" by proudhousewife (Grace Ann)_

Greetings and salutations! I was so moved by Grace Ann's wondrous work, "Hogwarts School of Prayer and Miracles," that I decided to write my own work along the same vein. Although I loved Grace Ann's story, I felt that the Dursleys were not given the proper role, and so have corrected this in my story. I hope you like it!

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><p>Once upon a time, there lived under a set of creaky stairs a pale waif of a child by the name of Harry Potter. Harry had been raised for almost ten years by his Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, who had taken him in after his parents' unfortunate demise out of the goodness of their Christian hearts.<p>

The Dursleys, as they were called, lived in a proper house in a good Christian neighborhood with their son, Dudley, and their charity case, Harry. Over the white picket fences, regulation height, and the carefully trimmed hedges, neighbors spoke amongst themselves about how fortunate young Harry was to have found a loving Christian home to take him in. These neighbors and indeed the Dursleys themselves knew quite well that they were doing the work of Jesus and that a special place in Heaven would be reserved just for them for doing their best to convert their charge.

The Dursleys were a truly proper Christian household, and quite proud of it too, thank you very much. Mr. Dursley worked all day in a factory that made drills, five days a week. Mrs. Dursley was a full-time housewife and mother to Dudley, a perfect little angel. Mr. Dursley was a very manly person with more hair on his chest than on his head, and dressed only in bold plaid flannel shirts and combat boots. Mrs. Dursley wore pearls in her ears and curled her hair even on days when she was just staying home to do dishes. She never wore pants or colors that were not pastel, and did not own a pair of shoes without heels.

The couple had decided long ago when they took the boy in that he would be brought up properly and that they would not tolerate his sinful ways; they knew the poor child's parents had been sinners, and the Dursleys took much satisfaction in telling young Harry all about how crispy they were getting in the flames of Hell as they spoke. Apples and trees meant that Harry would be destined to walk that same lonely, miserable path should the Dursleys and other good Christians not intervene. Their pastor agreed and regularly took Harry aside to coach him towards achieving 'The Good Life.'

Harry was a very naughty little boy, which was only to be expected considering his parents, and so he required much more discipline than the Dursley's own angel from Heaven, Dudley. Dudley had more Bibles and age-appropriate picture books than most libraries, and he threw them at his parents when they were not up to his standards. Vernon praised his son's arm and boasted that the boy was surely made to be a Major-League pitcher. Of course, Dudley was only allowed sports equipment and clothes in bold shades of red, gray, black, and deep blue. No son of Mr. Dursley's was going to be some weirdo in a dress.

Mr. Dursley used some of the very manly construction equipment that he kept in the garage (a room Mrs. Dursley was forbidden to enter) to fashion a tiny bedroom in the cupboard under the stairs for the charity case. The cupboard quickly became infested with spiders and was very poorly ventilated, having only one opening. Its walls were papered in pages of the Good Book and its small space was illuminated by one bare light bulb, more often off than on. The switch was outside the cupboard and darkness was often used as an extra punishment.

He made sure to explain to Harry through the little vent in the locked door that this was only to teach him what Hell would be like if he did not repent and claim Jesus as his savior, and left the boy there for many hours at a time in the darkness. Sometimes Harry would wail and pound his little fists against the door and beg to be let out, but the Dursleys knew their way was the right way and that all they did was only in the boy's best interests. Because of this, they refused to let Harry out of the cupboard except in cases of dire need, such as mealtimes and restroom breaks.

Once the boy grew old enough, he of course attended school, where he caused no end of trouble and thus required even more strict discipline. You see, Dudley was a kind and caring cousin to Harry and only felt it right that he tell his parents of all of the boy's sins at school so that Harry could be saved. If occasionally Dudley told a fib because Harry had not in fact done anything wrong that day, no one could blame him. Harry was always _thinking _of committing sins even when he was not actively doing so.

Because of this, Harry was made to thank Dudley for tattling. After all, were there no consequences, Harry would give in to his sin and be lost forever.

Dudley could not articulate this well, but his parents understood and praised him for his inherent goodness. "What a lovely son we have been blessed with." They were heard to say on many an occasion, while Harry screamed protestations of innocence through the cupboard door until his little throat was raw and red. The fact that Harry would lie about Dudley's stories by saying they were untrue only confirmed to them the necessity of his punishments.

Eventually, Harry stopped his futile attempts at freedom and accepted his fate; his aunt and uncle nodded gravely at each other in satisfaction that their efforts were indeed wearing the little sinner down to where he might be saved.

The Dursleys firmly believed in the righteousness of the Lord and in His holy ways, and so made a point of giving thanks and sharing family meals every night. At exactly 5:21 in the evening on weekdays, Vernon Dursley would return from his drill factory in his sensible GM family sedan, stroll up the sidewalk and trade pleasantries with his neighbors if they were out. On Saturdays the family would go out to a community potluck. On Sundays the main meal, usually a crockpot dish that had been prepared the night before, was served promptly at 5:00 after the family returned from church and washed up.

Mr. Dursley would lead the family in prayer and they would eat, sharing stories of their day. Dudley, the little angel he was, always had some lovely story or another to share about how he and his friends chased down a smaller, younger sinner (usually Harry, although any of the non-God-fearing students at his public school were fair game) and taught them about the love of Jesus.

Dudley had such a good heart that he would often spend the entirety of his recess sharing the word. Though his mother longed to home-school her angel, she submitted to his father's demands that his son attend his old school. Petunia knew that Vernon was the pinnacle of goodness and was always right, and sure enough, in this too he proved right. Since Dudley's enrollment, seventeen students had converted to the proper way of God in order to avoid the pain and terror of Hell. And if Dudley had to demonstrate the pain and terror of Hell that awaited these sinners in order to convert them, then his parents heartily approved his methods.

Vernon told stories about his boss and his coworkers, making sure not to judge any of them, for that is the Lord's place. Thus, he did not judge the sinful and immoral actions of his fellows, including the one who regularly committed adultery and was surely on the fast track to the deep fryer. He shared their stories with his family in order to warn them of the dangers of being unrighteous. He also would read the newspaper each day and report the Good Work of the Lord, whether it be the smiting of heathens with 100-foot waves or the failures of 'those thrice-cursed scientists' to create a cure for God's most resilient venereal disease, created by Him as a way of condemning all homosexuals and loose women to Hell.

Petunia shared stories about that day's religious broadcast, telling of the faith healings and expressing her interest in the Sermon of the Day's topic. Harry had only once interrupted her, very timidly, to ask why God had caused such hurt only to heal it with magic (he had been seven). The tirade that followed had lasted days and lost Harry meals for a week. "The only m-word I'll have in this house is 'miracles!'" exclaimed Aunt Petunia through her womanly tears. "There is no such thing as... as _that_!" Such was her disdain for magic that she could not even bear to say the word.

From that fateful day on Harry remained still and quiet in his corner chair, watching the good and righteous folk who had raised him eat first and clutching his second-hand Bible to his chest. As a sinner, Harry was not allowed at the Lord's own table and could only eat the leftovers unwanted by the good folk, and so he waited to receive his bowl at the end of the meal. The Dursleys insisted he follow a specific ritual. He would say grace, quote that day's Bible learning, and renounce one of the sins he had committed either at school or in his cupboard, and pray for forgiveness. Only after all of this could he eat.

Harry, being the most sinful person Dudley knew, was often on the receiving end of the boy's noble efforts. And although Harry quickly learned to shout at the top of his lungs that he _was_ faithful, that he _did_ believe, well that was just him being a deceitful liar and earned him twice the amount of attention. Harry couldn't be a true believer because he had yet to feel the love of Jesus in his heart. When the day came that the Dursleys finally managed to convert him, they knew the angels in Heaven would rejoice and send them a sign of the boy's true faith.

And so the years passed, and Harry learned his lessons well. He learned that he was a sinner and that no amount of good deeds or intentions could save him. Only by accepting the love of Jesus Christ into his heart, by admitting to his sin and by prostrating himself at the feet of the Savior could Harry join the ranks of God's most holy army.

No matter how many times Harry tried to accept Jesus as his one true savior, the Dursleys remained convinced of his inherent sinfulness and sly nature, and so refused to allow him his conversion and baptism. Only when Harry truly meant it with all of his heart and soul, they said, could he be saved. And Harry had asked meekly when that day would come, and the Dursleys had responded, "You shall know it when it comes, and so shall we."

The Dursleys knew in their hearts that Harry was still wicked, still corrupted by the sinful ways of his parents, and they waited for their suspicions to be proven right. That day finally came, on the eve of Harry's eleventh birthday.

That was the day the Devil came for Harry Potter.

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><p>Harry Potter and its related works, including The Tales of Beedle the Bard and similar publications, are the sole and express property of J. K. Rowling. This is a fan work made in the good faith that guides us all towards the Light of the Lord, meant only to demonstrate what I believe are the true intentions of the Dursley family. I own nothing. Don't sue. Thank you for reading, and let me know if I should continue this.<p>

**For those unsure of my true intentions despite the rather obvious slant of my narration, look no further than the genre of this story.** Thank you again.


	2. The Letter

A GOOD CHRISTIAN HOME

_Inspired by "Hogwarts School of Prayer and Miracles" by proudhousewife_

Chapter Two: The Letter

Everything began with a single letter, which arrived about a month before Harry's eleventh birthday. Harry was being punished for stealing cookies from the kitchen, and so was required to do all of the chores of the household for three days, including cleaning the bathrooms and washing the dishes. He'd protested innocence, but of course he was a no-good rotten liar, even if a cursory search of the cupboard had revealed no cookies.

When the mail slot creaked open, Aunt Petunia turned down her broadcast for a moment to order the boy to bring her the day's mail.

Harry dried his soapy hands on a dish towel and went to do as he was told. Usually he would not even glance at the stack before grabbing it, but this time there was a very strange envelope sitting on top of the usual bills and glossy advertisements. This envelope was a pale yellow color and was addressed in emerald-colored ink.

He couldn't help but notice that the address, which seemed to still be glistening somehow, read as follows: To Mr. Harry James Potter, Number Four Privet Drive, The Cupboard Under the Stairs, Little Whinging, Surrey. His mouth dropped open, and he carefully lifted the letter closer as if he were handling a newborn kitten. His hands were actually shaking as he checked and re-checked the address. A letter, a _real_ letter, for _him._ No one had ever written him a letter before.

Could it be...? Could this finally be the sign that his aunt and uncle were always telling him would come someday? There wasn't a stamp and the address was hand-written in a beautiful calligraphic print. Harry turned it over and over in his hands. His heart was thumping madly in his chest and he prayed with all his heart that this letter would be from Jesus. It looked just as a letter from Jesus should look, he thought hopefully, even though the seal had a strange coat of arms on it.

Dudley had received his letter from Jesus last Christmas, and a more beautifully framed piece of calligraphy had never been seen. It had a place of honor right above his bed. Harry had desperately wanted one of his own for his cupboard, but he was told tersely that he wouldn't get one until he was saved and not a day sooner. He swallowed the sudden dryness in his throat several times before he finally gained the courage to break the red wax seal and open the intricately folded parchment.

The letter stated the following: "Dear Mr. Potter, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry"—but that was as far as he read before he dropped the letter in sheer horror. Those were two bad words, very bad words indeed. Those were even _worse_ words than the m-word. This wasn't what he had hoped for. This was the Devil playing more tricks on him. He should turn this in to Aunt Petunia right away and beg forgiveness.

Still...

A _real_ letter...

He stood there for too long, frozen with indecision over whether to continue reading. He was still staring at the dropped letter when Dudley tromped down the stairs, wiping cookie crumbs from his lips and licking chocolate off of his fingers.

Harry tried to hide the evidence but it was too late; Dudley's little eyes gleamed with triumph and he shouted at the top of his lungs, "_Mooooom, Harry's opened the mail!_" Then he plopped down on the staircase to watch the fun.

Aunt Petunia swept into the hall only seconds later. "What are you doing reading our mail, you sly devil?" She cried, diving upon the stack of mail and grabbing the one Harry had opened. "The cupboard and toast for a week, and be thank... ful... it..." But as her eyes scanned the letter her words faltered, and the little points of red in her cheeks drained to white. She looked up slowly from the letter and stared at Harry with eyes so wide they were in danger of falling from her face, mouth a perfect 'o' of shock.

Then, without another word, she fled to the kitchen and slammed the door behind her.

Harry looked at Dudley and Dudley looked at Harry, both very confused. This was not how things ordinarily went. The hefty child hauled himself up from the stairs and made a point of shouldering Harry into the banister as he passed on his way to the kitchen.

But when the child tried the door, he discovered it to be locked. This caused his face to screw up with consternation—no door had ever been closed to him—and he knocked. There was no reply. "Mom?" He asked loudly. Still no sounds from the kitchen.

"B-but I need breakfast!" He wailed, knocking on the door again.

After a long pause, the door opened. Aunt Petunia peeked out. "Dudley," she said tightly, "Go to school."

"But..."

"I said, go to school."

Aunt Petunia was not angry, but something in her tone clued Dudley in to the fact that he'd better obey and obey right now. He turned around and went back up the stairs to change out of his pajamas, even though it was summer and there was no school. "And you." Harry's aunt said, still in that same odd, quiet tone. "You go into your cupboard and don't come out. You aren't going to school today."

Harry obeyed, and was not even the slightest bit surprised when he heard the bolt slide home.

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><p>Aunt Petunia realized her mistake shortly after she made it and brought Dudley into the kitchen for a surprise ice cream treat, explaining to him that Satan was playing tricks but that his father would handle it just as soon as he got home. She then planted him in front of their VHS collection of 'The Creation Adventure Team' tapes with a few snacks.<p>

Only after her perfect angel was settled did she go to the cupboard and unlock it. "Follow me." She ordered through tight lips, all the false good humor she had managed for Dudders dissipating like smoke. She brought Harry up to the spare bedroom where Marge usually stayed during her visits and sank into the armchair, one hand clutching the letter so tightly that it surely would have ripped by now, had it been made of regular paper. "Explain." Her tone was almost a whisper, and Harry realized with a start that his aunt was beyond furious. That was why her nostrils were flaring and her lips were pressed into a hard white line.

"I... it was a letter, to me." He said hesitantly. "It was just in the mail, on top of the stack like the others." Earning no response from his aunt led him to desperately press on. "I'm sorry, please forgive me, I'm sorry... I didn't mean it... I don't know where it came from, honest. I... I..." Here he faltered and bit his lip, unable to continue. He could feel dread crawling under his skin, tasted metal in the back of his throat.

Mrs. Dursley closed her eyes and sank deeper into the armchair with a miserable sigh. Now the anger faded into sadness, and her chin began to tremble faintly. When her eyes opened, her lashes were damp and she looked fit to cry. "Why, Harry...?" She asked, sounding so sad. "Haven't we done enough, sacrificed enough? Why do you continually turn to sin?"

Harry lost his ability to stand and sank to the floor on shaking knees. He couldn't speak, the guilt and shame blocking his throat and leaving him nauseous. He'd made his aunt, the closest person to a mother he'd ever had, want to cry. The thought was enough to make tears well up in his own eyes. He was bad. He was a bad, stupid, sinful boy and he would burn in Hell no matter what and it would be all his fault. No matter how much the Dursleys tried to help him, he would never change.

"You just go back to your cupboard, now." Aunt Petunia said, still in that same faint, sad tone. "You go back and you repent and pray and we just won't tell Uncle Vernon what's happened, all right?"

The tears did fall then, because Harry had been expecting something along the lines of 'You just wait until I tell your uncle!' and this unexpected kindness was more than he deserved. He looked up at his aunt through his tears and could swear he saw an angel's countenance shadowed over hers. "Thank you." He whispered, and retreated to the dark safety of his cupboard.

Aunt Petunia didn't leave the spare bedroom for a long time, but finally emerged after an hour of staring at a wall and another ten minutes finding a suitable place to hide the letter. A loose floorboard proved most convenient and soon there was no trace of the filthy, wicked thing.

Many hours later, Harry finally wondered why his aunt, who shared every miniscule detail of her life with his uncle, would choose not to tell him this. But no answer presented itself, and so he fell into a fitful, uneasy sleep.

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><p>The content of Harry's letter is quoted from the Philosopher's Stone. Not mine, don't sue. I use U.S. terminology because I am a lazy United States citizen and I don't feel like having to translate for those of my fellows who don't know that biscuits are sweet in the U.K. or that mail is called post. If it's horribly distracting, I'll change it. There are real framed letters from Jesus available; I own one that is painted on wood and is quite stunningly rendered if I do say so myself (makes a lovely coaster, honestly). 'The Creation Adventure Team' is a real show as well, although I earnestly wish it wasn't. Youtube at your own risk.<p>

I will reiterate. **THIS IS A WORK OF PARODY. **That is all.

We'll be getting to the Devil in the next chapter. I felt it was necessary to have this chapter here, for reasons you'll understand eventually. Anyway, see ya real soon!


	3. The Devil

Harry hadn't finished reading his letter. This was a problem.

And Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was nothing if he was not a problem-solver.

Preparations didn't take long, and soon the Headmaster was looking at a great stack of parchment, a bucket of green ink, another bucket full of quills, and a block of red sealing wax large enough to carve into a life-sized statue.

Dumbledore couldn't help himself. His eyes twinkled with mirth and he began to laugh at the sheer insane brilliance of his plan. He wasn't a man given to bragging, but this one was _really good._ After a time, the laughter faded into tiny giggles and he was able to cast the spell, merrily waving his wand at the material. At once, the supplies jumped into the air and began to dance, and in no time there stood before him a mountain of Hogwarts acceptance letters taller than he was. All of them were addressed to the same person.

He flicked his wand one last time to bring a spare bit of parchment and his quill from the desk into his hands, and hastily scrawled out a message to Filch.

The message read as follows, "Mr. Filch, I have encountered some difficulty and will require the use of every available school owl this coming Sunday. Please make arrangements. Thank you kindly, The Headmaster."

As he looked at the heaps of letters piled all about him, Professor Dumbledore suddenly thought that his problem might have also been solved by just _going_ to Number Four and insisting on seeing Harry.

Well, this would be much more fun, anyway.

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><p>The blizzard of letters had been the last straw for poor Uncle Vernon's frayed nerves.<p>

When he had married Petunia and the dark truth had come out, that she had family involved in some kind of hocus-pocus, Vernon had begrudgingly accepted it on the condition that he never need to speak to them. And Petunia had enthusiastically agreed, and hadn't ever pressed the issue. Heck,_ she_ didn't even talk to her family; why on Earth would she make Vernon do so?

And then those two weirdoes went and got themselves blown up and the boy was deposited on their front stoop like a particularly ugly kitten no one had wanted.

He'd been all for sending the boy to an orphanage post-haste. One child was more than enough for him. But Petunia had read the letter placed inside the folds of the baby's blanket and had looked up from it with clenched teeth and agony in her eyes. "Vernon," she'd said, "we must save this child." And she'd taken the bundle into the kitchen to feed it and dress its ugly cut forehead and coo to it in much the same way she cooed to Dudley.

She had never brooked any argument about it, and Vernon (quite to his own surprise) had stopped bringing it up sometime after the first month.

Harry-as-a-baby hadn't been so bad. It was only once he'd gained autonomous movement that the trouble had started. Weird things. Dark things. Things that could only be described as 'magical,' if only Vernon hadn't known better than to use that word in his wife's presence.

The boy would stick things in his mouth and they would change. Blocks became wood-shaving flavored lollipops. So he couldn't have blocks. Toy cars that were made of plastic and barely had wheels, let alone motors, would suddenly begin to zip across the floor as if possessed and slam into the walls, damaging them. So he couldn't have toy cars. An old stuffed bear of Dudley's, well, Vernon would swear that after he gave it to Harry it watched him constantly, and that was so creepy that he had to toss it out, only to find it right back on the couch when he re-entered the living room, staring at him again.

He'd had to slap Harry to get him to stop whatever it was he was doing with the bear. He'd shaken the bear and shouted, "No! Bad!" and thrown it away in front of the boy, pointing at the trash and saying, "Yes. Good."

For years afterwards, every once and a while he would catch Harry looking in the trash for that damn bear.

Because it was better if the boy had no toys, he had no toys. Petunia had felt a bit guilty about it, but after Harry had turned a toy snake of Dudley's that she had sneaked him into an (apparently) _real_ snake, she had come round to Vernon's point of view just as soon as he'd gotten her to stop shrieking.

They _had_ to be tough on the boy. Even Petunia agreed with that. He was _dangerous._ Only by stamping out everything weird and creepy in him could they save him from himself, and the best way to do that surely was with religion. The boy just needed God, he'd thought.

Well he didn't think that anymore. Heaven knew he'd tried. He'd had the boy memorize practically the entire Bible, made him pray and give thanks at every bedtime and meal, showed him what Hell would be like, let Dudley show him further what awaited him in the Pit, even brought him to church every Sunday like he was family. But still the boy wouldn't repent, and still unholy things happened around him. Maybe less often, but still unnatural.

And now some psycho in a dress was stalking Harry and Vernon. Was. Done.

He had no way of knowing that should Harry just send one of the school owls back saying, "I will not be attending," the letters would stop. Had he known that he would have gladly allowed Harry to do so and got on with things. After all, the boy didn't even want the letters. He was scared of them because they talked about witchcraft. Sensible child. Vernon might have even been in danger of feeling _fondness_ towards his nephew, though thumbscrews and the rack couldn't have gotten that confession out of him.

The blizzard, though. That was the end of it.

Mr. Dursley turned purple, raged a bit, and packed the whole family up that very evening. He didn't even allow Petunia to clean up the letters. "What will the neighbors think?" She'd cried, aghast that she would be leaving the house a mess. Her husband had not answered, too busy using one hand to hold an ice pack to the side of his lip where he'd torn out half his mustache and the other to pack a suitcase.

Strangely, he hadn't left the boy there. He could have done, he supposed. Let his lot sort it out. But no. He had taken on a holy duty to protect this creature and he was going to do it no matter what. Going back on a promise to God was the worst thing one could do, and Mr. Dursley wouldn't even contemplate it.

They first stayed at a hotel somewhere a long way away from Privet Drive, but the letters had again found them there. Now in desperation, Mr. Dursley thought about everything he'd ever heard about witches, which admittedly was not much beyond the fact that they made good firewood, and came up with a brilliant idea.

He found a fisherman who thought he was half-mad or worse, but that didn't matter. They would be safe. Witches couldn't cross running water, and the fisherman's little hut was the only building on a tiny island just off the coast. Perfect. It may not have had plumbing or electric, but that was all right—it was just until the letters stopped. A week at most before those crazies gave up, he thought.

And he slept all right for the first time since this whole nasty business had started, since Petunia had finally given in and told him about the letters hidden everywhere from under the loose floorboard to inside the egg carton. "If you throw them out," she'd explained, "they just reappear someplace more noticeable."

Absolute madness. But now they were safe.

Or so he'd thought.

* * *

><p>All of them had been awoken by knocks that were so loud they might have been thunder, had they not been so close, and then the door had burst inwards.<p>

The Devil wore the guise of a beast. A man-shaped creature at least ten feet tall and as wide across as two linebackers, with hands the size of steering wheels. His face was almost entirely hidden by a wild, wiry beard, and his eyes were only visible in the dark room by their reflections.

He—it—whatever—put the door back where it had come from and stormed into the hut like he owned the place. "Hello." He said in what could only be described as a menacing tone, despite its lack of apparent threat. No decent person just crashed their way into people's homes, now did they? "Don' mind me. Sorry 'bout the door."

The Dursleys were still blinking the sleep out of their eyes when the beast reached into his greatcoat's pockets and began rummaging around for something. With a flourish and an "Ah-hah!" he brought forth one of his kind's dastardly weapons.

The weapon he'd found? A faded, pink umbrella with several spokes sticking out at odd angles.

It was only when he pointed this umbrella at the fireplace and a merry blaze burst forth that Mr. Dursley found his voice.

"Where did you come from?!" He demanded with a more than a trace of panic in his tone. Dudley, poor Dudley, was cowering behind him. Harry had leapt into a corner and was barely a pale smudge against the grime of the walls. "You lot can't cross running water!"

The man snorted, looked at Mr. Dursley with a pitying gaze, and asked (not unkindly), "Yeh all righ' in the head, lad?" Vernon sputtered before falling silent. There was an awkward pause. Then the man said, "Righ', guess I should introduce meself. My name is Rubeus Hagrid, keeper o' the keys and grounds at Hogwarts. Already know your names, but... where's Harry?" His eyes focused on Dudley for a moment, but the boy had no trace of Lily or James about him.

After a moment of searching, his eyes found Harry. The fire had lit the room enough for him to immediately see that Harry took after his father; even as young as he was, he looked just like James. His eyes crinkled and he probably smiled, glad to have found his target. "Harry Potter." He said warmly. Of course he would sound friendly. Undoubtedly as soon as Harry let his guard down, he would grow horns and claws and would drag him outside into the storm.

Knowing this, Harry did not respond but instead tried very hard to become invisible, shrinking back as close as he could to the wall. Meanwhile, Vernon had scrabbled for the ornate silver cross he had purchased earlier and was now brandishing it just a few feet from Hagrid's face. "Begone, foul demon!" He shouted, holding the cross before him with shaking hands. He didn't know what this thing was, but no human was that size. Even if the running water trick hadn't worked, this one had to. _Everyone _knew silver killed monsters. "D-d-don't m-make me use this!"

Hagrid may have rolled his eyes. Then he reached out with one massive hand and plucked the cross out of Dursley's weak fingers, flicking it across the room. The cross crashed to the floor and came to a rest near the door.

What kind of power was this?

Silence fell in the hut, so that the only sounds were those of the fearsome storm pounding against the rocks and the walls of the hut. Hagrid could feel the hostility in the air, but he had been expecting it.

"No chance for a spot o' tea?" He asked, looking around the dismal hut. Petunia squeaked and escaped to the bedroom, unable to handle this man's evil ways any longer, and Vernon could not find his voice again. Harry was still playing the 'I'm not here, don't mind me' game in his corner.

Hagrid snorted again and dove right back into his pockets, searching for something to tempt the child out of the corner with. His hands first found the tea set and he yanked it free, very glad for its shatterproof spell. Then his questing fingers found a few links of smoked sausage that he had forgotten about. Well, why not? Brush the moldy dog biscuit crumbs off of them and they'd be good as new. Finally, he remembered that it was in the _other _pocket and triumphantly pulled the squashed white box out.

"Well, Harry," He said in his best 'gentle' voice. Clearly the lad was skittish, and for good reason. Here was the monster he had always been afraid Dudley would transform into. This man could squash him with one hand, but Hagrid was aware that children were sometimes scared of him and knew what to do. "Come 'ere and le' me look at yeh, an' I'll give yeh a present."

Harry, quite against his own power, took one step forward. Despite the fearsome appearance of this stranger, he was curious. Hagrid nodded once, and kept talking, "Tha's righ', don't be afraid of little ol' me. D'yeh know what day it is, Harry?"

Harry shook his head. He could think of no important event to be ascribed to this date. Then Hagrid opened the little white box to reveal something so hideous that it defied description. There were probably maggots and rotten organs involved. Mr. Dursley, brave as he was, couldn't stand to look and turned away in horror.

Actually, it sort of looked like just an ordinary birthday cake. The maggots were probably inside.

"Why, it's your birthday, o'course!" Hagrid said, sounding excited. "Sorry, I think I sat on it once or twice, but it's still sweet, righ'?" But little Harry was shaking his head.

"I d-don't have birthdays, sir." He said quietly, looking through the corner of his eyes towards Uncle Vernon. "Birthdays are not of the Lord." His uncle was still turned away but nodded when he heard this.

Hagrid blinked.

"Oh-kay." He finally managed. "Ohhh-kay. Well. Isn't tha' somethin'."

"I have birthdays!" Dudley proclaimed from behind his father, having seen the cake and being more concerned with his stomach than his salvation at the moment. Dinner had been nearly inedible, bananas and potato chips, and after a lifetime of being spoiled by Petunia's home cooking Dudley was now famished. Vernon shushed him, but he kept going, "But they're spiritual birthdays for the day I got saved, that's why Harry doesn't have them."

Something unusual happened then. Instead of being proud and happy for Dudley that he had been saved, Hagrid only seemed upset. "So yeh get birthdays, do yeh lad? An' Harry doesn't?" He almost growled. "Somethin's fishy here." Dudley yelped and hid himself behind his father again.

"It is a fisherman's hut, sir." Said Harry guilelessly. Hagrid turned to him again and the boy found his voice faltering. "That's probably... why... smells like..." But he couldn't finish. Hagrid threw back his head and let out a great long laugh, sending Vernon running into the bedroom with fright while dragging Dudley behind him. The door slammed shut and the sounds of dragging furniture could be heard from inside.

Harry stared at the bedroom door in shock. They'd left him! Hagrid's laughter died out and he wiped a tear from one eye. "Yer al' righ' by me, kid." He said cheerfully, sticking the sausages on the poker and balancing the pole by the fire. "Migh' as well come over here, get yerself warm to yer bones, and I'll see about some tea and cake."

Again Harry moved without thinking and soon was sitting next to the hulk of a man. Hagrid nodded at him and from this close Harry could definitely see him smiling. "The way I see it," Hagrid began, tapping the teapot with his umbrella, "even if yeh don' have birthdays, you can still eat cake. Whaddaya say?" The teapot jumped up and began to whistle, and Harry flinched.

Hagrid grabbed it out of the air and began to pour tea. He offered the first cup to Harry, but Harry just said quietly and unhappily, "No thank you, sir. I'm not to take offerings from strangers."

"Well, I'm no' exactly a stranger, am I?" Hagrid scoffed, offering again. "After all, it was me who brought yeh to yer aunt and uncle when you was just a baby." This time, Harry took the cup, after searching the man for signs of lying and finding none. He somehow _knew_ Hagrid was telling the truth, though he couldn't explain it to himself.

The tea was just hot enough and seemed to warm Harry from the inside out. He hadn't realized his teeth were chattering until he'd come close to the fire and it had begun to warm his damp skin. Hagrid sipped from his own cup and they sat in companionable silence for a moment. The sausages popped and sizzled against the fire, filling the hut with their smoky smell.

"Now, then, Harry." Hagrid spoke suddenly, and surprising even himself, Harry did not flinch this time. "I hear yeh been havin' some trouble with yer letters." And he reached into the inner pocket of his coat to pull out a yellow envelope addressed in green ink.

Harry took it from him and stared almost reverentially at his name. He knew the letters to be evil and only existing as a way of tempting him to Hell, but the presence of this unusually kind stranger dulled that fear and made him feel almost silly for thinking so.

He turned over the letter and with shaking fingers, broke the wax seal.

* * *

><p>Double update today since I probably won't be back for a time. Fun fact: J. K. Rowling's original intention in having Vernon choose the seaside hut was that old superstition. Weird, huh? Anyway, I hope everyone is still enjoying this...? It's going to conclude with fewer than ten chapters I think, since I wouldn't want to beat a dead horse (I wouldn't beat a live horse, either, so I think that's a strange expression, but I digress). Take care, everyone.<p> 


	4. Yer a Sinner, Harry!

Hagrid didn't understand what went wrong, but he blamed the damned letter.

Everything had been just fine until Harry had opened that wax seal and begun to read. Sure, he was a bit skittish, but who wouldn't be? He hadn't been allowed to even say the word 'magic' in his house before today, so all this was new and scary. The intelligent young lad sensed that all of this was wrong, and bad. Still, he'd read the letter, giving in to his all-too-human curiosity.

But as little Harry had read, his fingers had begun to shake. His face lost the small amount of color it had regained in the presence of the enchanted flames' heat, and a low groan had started from somewhere in his stomach. He dropped the pages of the letter and curled into himself, silent tears beginning to drip down his face. Hagrid could only tell he was crying because of the snuffles he heard; Harry had buried his face in his knees.

When Harry began to rock back and forth, Hagrid realized with an unpleasant lurch that the boy was actually attempting to comfort himself, rather than seek the comfort of another. That's why he was clutching his knees so desperately. And the way he used every method he could to stifle the noise he made while crying...

Only children who were afraid to be discovered 'being bad' learned how to do that.

Hagrid's giant fists clenched and his hand snapped up to the door those Muggles were hiding behind. Why, he wanted to...! Well, he wanted to do something very uncharitable. A sinner like him couldn't possibly hope to understand the depths of the sacrifice the Dursleys had made for Harry's sake.

But Harry needed him more right now.

"Hey, uh..." Hagrid started, even though he had absolutely no idea what to say. "Yer goin' teh be all righ'... 's okay..." He wanted to hug Harry but wasn't sure if he should, as the boy would rightfully recoil from his foul touch. Harry looked up at him, green eyes streaming with tears, and said something that broke Hagrid's heart:

"I... won't... be." And then Harry looked into the flames dancing so merrily in the fireplace and they sheepishly extinguished themselves, dying out with an embarrassed shiver. The flames of Hell would be quite warm enough; Harry didn't want any reminders of his fate. Still, the flames going out on command seemed to confirm the horrible words in that letter, that he could do _magic._ That, or the hut had a very good sense of dramatic timing. Probably the former.

"Yer a wizard, Harry." Hagrid tried, hoping that putting it right out there might help Harry cope. That, or he just had a really bad sense of timing. Probably the latter. "Yeh were born tha' way an' yeh'll prob'ly be a powerful one, if yeh take after yer parents..." But Harry was shaking his head back and forth, hard enough that he was probably rattling his brains.

"I am a Christian!" He suddenly shouted, jumping up from the couch and dropping his teacup. It bounced harmlessly on the rough wooden floor, but the tea spilled out. "I... I..." But he was crying again. "I just wanted to get saved..."

"Harry," Hagrid said, thinking as rapidly as he could. Dumbledore should have come, he would have been so much better for this. "Yeh can be a wizard AN' a Christian."

"Can't." Harry began to shake his head again and seemed unable to stop. "Can't, can't, can't..." Something suddenly seemed to occur to him and he actually smiled up at Hagrid through his tears. He gulped back some more sobs and managed to say quite calmly, "Of course you would say I can, because you want me to convert."

"Convert...?" Hagrid blinked. Of course Harry saw right through his ploy to drag the boy to Hell right along with him. He'd have to play innocent. "Harry, we won't ask tha' of yeh. It's jus' a school... fer wizards... which yeh are."

"That's what you _would _say!" Harry exclaimed, throwing his arms out in exasperation. "And then the blood oath comes out once my guard's down! I won't sacrifice any small animals! I won't!"

Hagrid could only blink. This was not what he'd expected at all. Young children were usually so easy to tempt over—all it took was a piece of cake in extreme circumstances—most children were _excited_ about their letters, not realizing that by attending Hogwarts they were essentially signing their souls away to the Devil. But Harry was smarter than that.

Hagrid didn't think any of this, but the narrator is sure his thoughts followed a similar line. After all, Hagrid represented a tool of the Devil.

Said tool of the Devil, meanwhile, was still bewildered. He picked up Harry's teacup and refilled it, then held it kind of hopelessly like he wasn't sure whether or not to offer it to the boy. "So... yeh don' want teh go to Hogwarts?" asked Hagrid with confusion.

"Do I get a choice?" bit Harry with some venom, gesturing towards Hagrid's huge form. Hagrid understood the implication and flinched. Harry made a good point; Hagrid could very easily drag him anywhere in the world, with his brute strength and sheer size.

"Harry... I wouldn'... I'd _never_. Yeh don' have teh go if yeh don' wan'. I jus'..."

At his words, Harry deflated like a popped balloon. He sank to the floor on his knees and stared down at the rotted, warped wood. "I don't... I don't really have a choice." He finally almost-whispered. "I don't have anywhere else to go, do I?" The Dursleys had abandoned him, and rightfully so—he was a sinner, had been born that way and could not escape it. It was a miracle they had put up with him for this long.

"Harry, I... look..." Hagrid let out a great sigh, like a gust from a bellows, and placed one giant hand as carefully as he could on Harry's shoulder. His hand fit over the boy's entire back. "Yeh don' have teh go. I mean tha'. But... but Hogwarts is a good place. I promise yeh. And yeh have teh learn teh control yer magic or yeh migh' hurt someone."

"All right." Harry said, after what seemed like a very long time. "All right." And he stood up and shrugged Hagrid's hand off, looking towards the door where the Dursleys had hid. "Then... let's just go." The Dursleys wouldn't want to be tainted by him any longer. He wouldn't trouble them with a goodbye. "Let's go."

Hagrid led Harry out of the hut and into his little boat, the rain parting in a small dome around the boat once they boarded. Harry looked up briefly when the rain suddenly cut off but didn't comment.

"Bein' a wizard is grea', really!" Hagrid had offered about halfway across the lagoon. He was desperate to fill the awkward silence. But wise little Harry had only looked at him, and when he finally spoke, his voice was soft.

"Miracles are the Lord's domain; only He should hold such power. He created man inferior to His might and that was His plan."

"Hmm..." Hagrid thought that perhaps he finally had something he could argue with. "Harry, yeh ever do magic before the fire? Accidental-like?"

Harry started, blinking rapidly. Those 'events...' The teacher's blue hair, for one. And that time he had inexplicably ended up on the roof, far away from Dudley. He had thanked the Lord for that miracle, but... had it been magic?

Hagrid took his silence for the acquiescence it was. "An' if yeh did it like tha', then tha' means it's part of yeh. An' the Lord created everythin', righ'? So, tha' means he created yeh, magic and all." The boat bumped up against the shore, but neither of them moved. Harry was staring at him still, but this time wistfully. He wanted so badly to hope.

"You think... the Lord created me this way?"

Hagrid nodded. "Must've done, the way I see it."

Harry took in one last long, shuddering sob, and then calmed. "He moves in mysterious ways." The boy said quietly. Then he stood up and hopped off the boat. Hagrid followed him off the boat, bemused. Well, that had been... interesting. But Harry was drying his tears now and looking past the clouds, presumably watching for some sign of his God. During the boat trip, the rain had stopped and now the only sound in this remote area was the rumbling of the rough waves chopping the rocks to sand. "Where are we going next? Direct to Hogwarts?" Hagrid didn't know what Harry was looking for, but he supposed the boy must have found it, for a profound peace settled over his previously troubled face. He suddenly realized that Harry had asked him a question.

"Nope, Harry... nex' stop is Diagon Alley."

* * *

><p>Soooo... this is turning into a 'real' story... somehow. What do you all think? Harry's still not okay with being a wizard, not by half, but he's getting used to the idea (and jumping on the first buoy to his faith that Hagrid threw him, out of desperation). He <em>wants <em>to believe that God has a plan for him. Next chapter is... Voldemort! Oh c'mon, you know you want to know what I'm going to do to that poor bastard. Rating's jumped to T because of my foul mouth. I wouldn't want to corrupt any ickle firsties, now would I? Review if you like. I love them. I will respond at length. And possibly shower you with cookies. Anyway.


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